I don’t know how to be on the internet right now.

All I did was click on that little fucking blue bird and now my skin is on fire.

It’s not even anybody’s fault.

I keep telling myself this.

It’s not helping.

This is news. These words are important. They should be everywhere. It should be known. This should be read.

But not by me.

Yes, I see the fucking irony.

I have taken my medication and my shoulders have begun their transformation from concrete to cracked egg shells. I have progressed from hyper-vigilant to hyper-annoyed.

How is this fair?

My abuser went to jail. They threw the fucking book at him. Three times the standard prison sentence.

He can’t touch me anymore.

Telling myself that doesn’t really help much, either.

I wonder how many more times this will happen. I wonder how many more women will come forward. I wonder how many more stories there will be.

How deep will I have to dive to avoid the accidental yet searing triggers?

How can I distance myself from this reality without distancing myself from reality?

My friends will understand.

Telling myself that again just feels shitty.

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